Great Pyramid of Giza
it's old
I'm told
Hanging Gardens of Babylon
divine
grape vine
Statue of Zeus at Olympia
god king
stirring
Temple of Artemis at Ephesus
god mom
the bomb
Mausoleum at Halicarnassus
big tomb
much room
Colossus of Rhodes
big man
bronze tan
Lighthouse of Alexandria
took dunk
went plunk
Slow cooked ribs.
Melting off the bone but under the bone is a brain-skeleton.
Makes me motivated to turn from an onion to the best onion rings.
Those slow cooked ribs fell of the bone and made a “plunk” sound.
Like peeling back layers of slobbery sauce over.
Everything is tasty over yonder.
When they cooked my brains?
Didn’t know they’d leave behind vein-shaped spindles.
They added a touch of rosemary.
Stirred me up good.
And maybe turmeric too.
Take up more brainspace, sure.
I’m altered.
Everything is syrup everywhere.
Clanging.
With weird smells.
My jaw.
Yawns.
Then settles like algae around my ears.
I’m tired.
Like old dishwater.
Gulp.
Turbulence.
But it’s just that the trash can got knocked over by a raccoon.
Plunk.
And inside I felt a “plunk” too.
A trash can is not a good place to take my lunch break.
But I finished reading my book.
With night vision goggles.
Come on! Is that the best blast you've got?
Your thunder tantrums don't scare me - Your flash and flare they're half hot!
I love this dunder, blunder, thunder, and underhand rumble-in-the-jungle!
Touché! Olé! We're duellin' again with fork-pronged lightn' sparkling lances.
Clang! Bang! Ker-pow! Ker-plunk! Ker-thump! - Your thunder's late by years!
I flash, bash, smash, crash, gnash — while your Ker-boom goes boom blah, blah, Ahah!
Your quick flashback, claptrap wisecracks come back five seconds late.
Bolt after bolt, your jolts, revolts, cheap-shots and pot-shots hit my ear flaps.
All roar, no score, no gore, no nosebleeds — just air stabs in ionized air.
By then your temper, torage, outrage, out in the garage is binned — You lost!
You ain't learned nothin' from last night's plate-a-smashin' dry run.
Oh No! Don't let the rain come down!
We're both having far far too much fun!
You can't resist, can you — spoiling the perfect row —
By making up, way, way, way ..... too soon!
my twin and I were thrilled
We got to wake up at four a.m.
Each of us had a new fishing rod
Mine was blue, hers was red.
We were eight
This was a big event
Grandma had sausage and eggs ready.
We were too excited to eat them.
She made us take them in a little pouch
“in case you girls get hungry”.
Grandpa warned us all the way we had to be quiet
Our giggles could be heard all over his truck.
The day was silent.
It was dark, like night, not morning.
We jibber jabbered, and he told us not to.
We were quiet when he put the boat into the water.
He held it for both of us.
Lake fishing! Wow!
We thought we would be fishing on the pond.
But this was Red Haw Lake, the big lake.
We did not want to pierce the worms, so he did it.
We were not great at casting either, so he did that too.
Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. This set us into a giggling mode.
We heard shushing from the dark corners of the lake.
This made us giggle harder and louder, and inspired questions.
Grandma was shocked when we came home in a mere hour.
“I will never take them fishing again, they scared the bass for everybody”.
The rest of the day we went around saying “dumb old grandpa” under our breaths.
A donut requires a dunk
And a stone, sitting creekside, a plunk.
With the first, there’s a dip
And the second, a skip,
Both delightful as thoughts to have thunk.
let’s go to the haunted cave
I can dress up and be a knave
we must take the underground wagon ride
just fifteen dollars gets me inside
I will stay here and fan myself said Grandma Wrench
She rushed over to plunk down on a tiny bench.
There are thirty-thousand bats in there she yelled to her man.
He rolled his eyes, and fished his money from the can.
The haunted cave is in Ohio, Lewisburg, and it is long.
You can walk or ride, it’s fun; you cannot go wrong.
But after seeing the bats, I decided to stay outside with Gram.
While you post Dracula kind of pix on InstaGram.
I’m an idiot; I keep bending
my feather-tipped thumb
like lumber; not limber
this knuckle bone nail
painted cheap-pink; thinks
only of ink in bottomless pit
push, press, plunk; put on
the old brace to restrain
but don’t you know; the sucker
will escape ‘cause the writer
just can’t give it a rest; useless
to try - won’t cut it off, right?!
Write!
.
.
.
.
.
.
with mouths smudged purple
we plunk grapes into our pails . . .
sangria sunrise
O emptiness of space, thy harpsichords. Whole?
Panels out of place, looking-glasses smashed.
Bitter winds, thy frost. Sickness, dole, O soul.
Chaffy grain beneath the tired thresher slashed.
Turmoil, tamarisk tree. Toil? Thunderbolt.
Hated are the days of life gone dry. Why?
Reality thinned, then forgot how to fly.
Happy thoughts, lost. Cost? Harvest season molt.
Protection? None. Been and done. Sun? Hostile.
Yellow as eyes on a predator? Pill.
Alcohol, wormwood, erasure, vile vial.
Guns, thy salute. Funeral. Lunge, then still.
Ravine, out back and filled with water. Caught.
Animals afloat, belly up, life flew.
Grey old men, hope is a mystery. Clue?
Sparks, burned out and skittering. Fire, cold. Bought.
Doom, close in on all. Deliverance? None.
Stifled by Fate and Fortune? Withheld. New?
Nothing under the sun, scion. Red run.
Grasping fingers and a quill, quahog. Brew.
Wasteland, receive. Gold, far. Sandbar, choke. Smoke.
Poison, leap from serpent's fang. Deeply sunk.
Peril, everywhere. Round upward, time. Soak.
Continent, beneath water. Ocean, plunk.
I plunk myself down in front of a computer
No reason, nothing to say, not inspired or anything
Others say they stare at a blank page or screen
Not me; I marvel at my hands as they begin to type
Who are we channeling? Who is writing this stuff?
I have no idea, but my muse is always writing, writing, writing
Unless we are painting, and then I do not know whether she is asleep
Or sitting on my shoulder, whispering to me which strokes to use
If there is anything I do on my own, it is probably clean
Because who wants to do that, right?
Not even me.
A circle and a triangle went out to take the air
one moonlit night upon Piccadilly Square,
and to every heartbeat pound and every footfall plunk,
the triangle said, "thunk a thunk a thunk".
The circle said not a word, so silently did she move,
ever good and graceful, she had nothing to prove.
Sometimes the naturally gifted
are without a flake of ambition.
While the thoroughly ungifted
have the ambition of a raging river.
The wallflower wishing to be alone
seems to attract a murder of crows.
A social butterfly's world will contract
into a black hole of pure emptiness.
A snake with a taste for a nest of eggs
makes its way through pricks of discomfort.
The bird must plunk to the ground for seed.
Only to be pounced upon by the fanged unseen.
Why raindrops drip and drop in time,
not timorous; divine.
A splash, playful
in a pond of koi brass.
Tines of Sankyo, priceless precipitation;
A plink and plunk, Chopin;
“Till the End of Time,”
that is why raindrops
hold their gravity,
until the fruit
of their musicality
must be mined,
be longed
by great golden fish
with open lips
excited by the weather
without human palms
to catch, a catch
that croaks and grunts,
that fills the pond.
In skies of gray I dwell
inside of clouds,
keeping company with mugginess
and sweltering heat.
People who labor underneath me
perspire profusely; some curse.
Others pray for me
to cut their labor short.
Yes, they pray for rain.
I hear their cries,
for I’ve been mustering steam
during days and days of dreadful drought.
Pitter patter pitter patter
Their plaintive pleas I answer teasingly.
Starting slow. I dole out droplets
drop by drop by tiny drop
The droplets increase . . . plop plop plop.
Wind joins in - wailing.
Trees tremble as I splatter them
with wonderful wetness for the prayerful.
Swoosh! Ker-plunk!
I’m drumming and drumming,
pouring myself down
on thirsting flowers with heads bowed
to reverently receive me.
Umbrellas appear all over the streets.
Gleefully, I pound them, hammering away.
I pounce on the heads of uncovered people.
Soaking grass and soil,
filling rain gutters, and
sliding joyously off many hard surfaces,
I saturate every place that I’m able to outside.
I am rain, and unceasingly
this summer day,
I reign
supreme.
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